


american cola

by theformerone



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, i just finished season one and i have FEELINGS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13817457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theformerone/pseuds/theformerone
Summary: Misaki isn't sure why he can't mourn his loss with the people he loves.





	american cola

He hates being there, at the bar, where the others don't show up and if they do, it's only to flinch at the sight of Mikoto's picture on the wall. They run. They're cowards, all of them. Mikoto didn't have cowards for clansmen, he had an army of spitfires, of wildfires, and young volcanoes.

This - this wasn't right.

They weren't supposed to abandon each other, They weren't supposed to drift off in opposite directions with half hearted promises to see each other soon. That wasn't what being in a clan was about, was it? That wasn't what Mikoto had left them when he - when he - 

Misaki's heart is raw and heavy with the weight of his loss, and his stomach churns at the idea of everyone turning tail now that their King is dead. Even Kusanagi disappeared. He hasn't seen Kamamoto in weeks, or Anna either. 

He doesn't know where any of them are. Half of them don't answer when he tries to call, the other half don't seem to have anything to say for themselves. He curses at them, demands excuses or explanations, but no one can give him an answer that satisfies him. It makes his stomach turn, makes him feel sick and hollow.

There used to be an inferno in his chest whenever  he thought about his clan, one fed with pride and love and a surety that no matter what happened to them, they'd all pull through together. No one could top them when they were together, because what was a fire but many sparks moving as one?

Now there is a cold feeling at Misaki's chest, localized around the place where his mark once flared an insistent excitable red. He clutches at his collarbone, hides it under scarves and hoodies, trying to warm it up but finding that he can't. He doesn't want to look at his mark when nobody he shares it with wants to acknowledge that it's there.

As the months pass by with no sign of Kusanagi, or Kamamoto, or Anna, or anyone else, Misaki gets bitter. In February, he gives up on ever seeing any of his clansmen again. He stops waiting. He's still, still bitterly angry, still grieving over Tatara's loss and Mikoto's only a handful of days later. It hurts, gods above and below, it _hurts._  And it hurts even more because he's alone in it. Wallowing in it, unsteady on his feet and wavering more all the time.

He just wants someone to be around. Wants to look over his shoulder and see someone there, see  _any_ of them there. Shohei, Akari, Kamamoto, Dewa, Solt,  _any_ of them. But they never appear. Months roll by and December becomes January becomes February. Still, it is cold outside. Every day it snows. 

And Misaki isn't sure why he can't mourn his loss with the people he loves. 

* * *

He wanders, because he isn't sure of where else he has left to go. He skates because what else is there for him to do?

He comes upon the corner almost by accident. He passes it, really, then skids to a stop when he realizes where he is.

It's the corner where he and Saruhiko first met Mikoto and Tatara and Kusanagi and the others.

It shouldn't be such a shock. It's just a street corner like any other street corner. But it's different. So very different. He can barely remember how long ago it was, when he and Saruhiko liked each other enough to sit near each other instead of lashing out and aiming for the face. It has to be a lifetime ago, when he was that - that young. That's the only word he can think of to describe himself back then; young.

He feels old now. Tired. He hasn't been to Mikoto's grave in weeks. It's the one place that everyone has visited once, if the incense and flowers that routinely shift are any indication. They couldn't support each other together, but they could all pay tribute to their king's grave. Misaki tries to let that make him feel better. Instead, the knowledge makes his stomach turn. 

But the curb is quiet. Untouched. There are people walking past him, and none of them, none of them know that his life changed forever when he was just sitting here, playing video games and drinking cherry cola with his best friend. 

He sits down there and turns his face to the east; that was the direction that Mikoto and the others had been walking when Misaki threw the bottle. East, towards the sun. 

The awful coil in his stomach relaxes just a little bit, and the mark on his chest feels a little warmer. 

Misaki stays there until the sun sets. And when night takes the day, he slowly gets up and he goes home. 

* * *

He goes back every day for weeks. He isn't always able to spend the whole day. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it snows. He starts wearing his red hoodie over his white crewneck because he gets cold out there while he sits, and watches. 

It's nice. People usually leave him alone. He doesn't occupy himself with his watch. He doesn't play any games, he doesn't make any calls. It's nice here. There's enough of a memory of all of HOMRA here before the world went to shit and back again. 

When he sits and thinks about it, he can just barely see Mikoto's too-cool-for-you smirk. He can hear Tatara's laugh, can smell Kusanagi's cigarette smoke. And he can feel the heat off the bottle as Mikoto melts it, can smell burning glass. Can taste the cola at the back of his throat. 

Sometimes he cries, other times he doesn't. Most times, he just sits and waits to see a family that has scattered to the wind. 

* * *

He's sitting at the corner when a coin hits him square in the face. It smarts like hell, and Misaki immediately puts his hand up to where he knows there'll be a bright red mark. A couple of people have confused him for a bigger before, but they've always put the money down in front of him, never  _thrown it at his face_.

"Oi," he grumbles, "I appreciate the gesture, but there's no need to get violent -,"

The words die in his throat. 

"Saru."

He's not in his uniform, he's in his civilian clothes. Black jeans, white shirt, and a black coat with a furry collar; something more Red than Blue if you asked Misaki. He's staring down at him with a terribly superior look on his face. 

"You're a beggar now?" Sarufiko asks, raising one mean eyebrow. "The vanguard of the Red Clan is  _panhandling?"_

Misaki scoffs and looks away. Even before he left HOMRA for SCEPTER4, Saruhiko had always been  brat. Wielding two colors had only made him worse. Saruhiko was the last person that ever needed to go on a power trip; he wasn't even remotely likely to come home from it.

"I didn't know losing a King also made you homeless. Remind me to tell Munakata not to get himself killed."

Misaki sighs heavy through his nose and stares east. Part of him, instinctually wants to rise to the bait. This is the way he and Saruhiko communicate. They snap at each other, trade blows and insults in kind. But Misaki has finally found a single place that feels like home now that home has abandoned him. And fighting Saruhiko here would feel too much like fighting at Mikoto's grave. 

So he says nothing. Saruhiko sneers at him, tosses coins at his head, tries to get a rise out of him. Misaki stays quiet and keeps his eyes on the horizon. He thinks about maybe coming early the next day so that he could watch the sun rise and rise across the sky until it was noon. Maybe… 

He doesn't notice when Saruhiko sucks his teeth and walks away. 

* * *

Misaki starts showing up in the early morning to watch the sunrise from his seat on the curb. He gets up around noon to go eat something. Sometimes he returns to the curb, other times he doesn't. It's a comfortable routine, and it's easier than being ignored by his clansmen. 

Saruhiko comes back. 

He taunts him. Needles at him. Throws coins at him. Misaki kind of feels like a monk at a temple; he doesn't move when Saruhiko tries to distract him. He keeps his eyes east and maintains his silence. A couple of times, strangers snap at Saruhiko to leave him alone. They berate him for hassling a homeless kid. 

Misaki can't help but laugh when a little old woman lifts her purse to hit Sasuhiko, and the blue clansmen stalks off to avoid being written up for getting into an altercation with a civilian. When he leaves, the old woman rummages around in her purse for some hard candies. Misaki accepts them gratefully, but insists that he won't take the cash she tries to offer him as well. The woman tells him not to be proud and to take help when it's offered to him. 

He uses the money to buy a sandwich and a hot coffee. He doesn't know why he cries as he eats them, but he gives the waitress of the café a watery smile when she comes over to ask him what's wrong.

* * *

One early March morning, when Misaki gets to the curb, there is a singlee cherry cola sitting there. 

He looks left and right; the street is pretty much empty. It's too quiet for anyone to be awake, and the only people up and moving are him and business people scurrying to be early to impress their bosses. 

None of them would leave him a cherry cola. 

Misaki sits down next to it, eyeing the bottle warily. It's his favorite brand, the one with no label but all the information written on it in white ink. It was an American drink, pretty expensive in the convenience store. It was a splurge he didn't make regularly. Whoever left it out would probably be upset about leaving it behind. 

Once the sun is up, and parents are guiding their young children to school, Misaki opens the bottle and takes a long pull. He finishes the whole bottle, pockets the cap, and recycles the glass. 

It's a really good day after that. 

* * *

For the next week, there's a bottle of cherry cola waiting for him in the morning. He wonders if it's Kamamoto or Kusanagi. They know how much he likes the drink, and they've got jobs steady jobs to avoid throwing money away on an eight pack of American soda. He wonders if the cola is a way for one of his clansmen to let him know he hasn't been forgotten. That maybe, eventually, when their new King awakens, they'll be able to come together again. 

Misaki hopes for the best, but he's wary to hope too much.

He drinks them every morning and pockets the bottle caps. He doesn't know what he's going to do with them, but they're a welcome weight in his usually empty pockets. He thinks maybe he could make them into a silly necklace for Anna; the caps have the brand name in red cursive on them, and they'd fit with her white and red color scheme. 

He's pondering how much glue he'd need to make them, and what kind of chain would complement bottle caps, when he gets to the curb. Someone else is already there. 

Saruhiko's eyes are west, towards where the sun sets. He's drinking a bottle of Misaki's favorite cherry cola. It occurs to Misaki then, that it's Saru's favorite, too. That it had been something they had in common when they first met. A shared taste for a stupidly expensive soda they could only afford every once in a while. 

Saru's eyes are westward, the direction where HOMRA had been coming from on their way east. Misaki bites at his lips. After a moment of hesitation, he steps up onto the curb. Saruhiko doesn't look at him, just keeps his eyes away and sips at the cola. Misaki takes his seat, and he looks to the east. 

They don't say anything to each other for some time. Misaki is comfortable in the silence. It's like something else has slid into place. Aside from missing the Red Clan walking past, Saruhiko had been missing from his side. Now it's more like that day, cherry cola and all. 

There's a bump at his arm, and Misaki turns to see Saruhiko offering him the bottle. There's more than half left. He looks from the bottle to Saru's face, but his former clansmen isn't looking at him. Misaki feels his shoulders relax and he smiles before he takes the bottle from Saruhiko's hands. Their fingers brush, but they say nothing. 

Misaki finishes the bottle in silence. 

They sit there in the quiet. Misaki puts his hands down on either side of him, and his fingers land squarely on Saruhiko's. He can feel Saru tense up, but there's a moment of breath before Saruhiko snatches his fingers away. 

It's not perfect. It's not really even okay. But it's something. It's kind of what he wanted the whole time. To share a moment, to grieve over someone he loved with someone he loved. 

After a little while, Saruhiko pulls a second bottle out of the pocket of his jacket. He gets the cap off with the blade of one of his daggers. They share that one too as the sun rises. 


End file.
